High Noon
by Parsley Pinwheel
Summary: Thoughts are a tricky thing, he reflects, laying on his side, eyes glued to the white expanse of a bedroom wall. [nickgreg]


(High Noon)

Thoughts are a tricky thing, he reflects, laying on his side, eyes glued to the white expanse of a bedroom wall. Hardly anything else can plague him into awareness night after night to stare endlessly at a white wall. Nothing else can run rampant through his mind over and over, when he can do nothing about it except relive what was said and what happened. Thoughts. Endless streams of consciousness that tumble and trip and swirl and whirl through his mind until he's sick of them but can't get them to leave.

The afternoon sun has somehow made its way through the tiny crack in the black curtains he has hung in his room, much like the thoughts have somehow made their way past the black curtains and walls and barriers he'd put up in his mind. It was such a fucking offhanded comment, nothing really mind-blowing or stirring to anyone but him, but now he cant get it out of his head and he can't keep from playing that moment of life over and over on the screen of his mind. He rolls over, the sheet getting tangled around one leg and he kicks at it in futility, if the sheet wants to stay wrapped around his calf, the sheet will manage to stay. Dark brown eyes wander over a bedside table now, a watch, a tie thrown off because he was too lazy to hang it up, a book he was reading before trying to sleep, his glasses perched happily on top of that, as if surveying their user while he thinks.

He reflects for a moment that he should paint his room, that white is a color that is used by vanilla Texas boys and is a pathetic attempt at bringing some of his home here because his mother always said white walls made a room look bigger. But he'd always wanted green walls if his walls weren't white, and now that's not a possibility, because after you spend time in a box with green light you avoid that color like it's red tide and you certainly don't voluntarily put it anywhere where it can mock you night after night. His brain seems to have noticed his digression and pulls him back to the current broken record of his previous wonderings. Again he recalled the statement, again it flickered through his mind. That silky voice whispering huskily in response to a question he shouldn't have asked.

- - - -

_"Greg!" quick footsteps and he caught up to the younger man, a hand on his elbow. The younger CSI looked up at him with accusing brown eyes and Nick recoiled slightly, but kept his grip. _

_"What Nick?" He snapped, eyes still bleary from the alcohol, the smell of smoke and club and sweat sticking close to his frame. Those dark eyes bored into the Texan's, pierced him to the core. "I don't need a fucking babysitter, Nick, I don't need you to be my knight in shining armor anymore." He snorted at the look of near-confusion on the older man's face, "Nick, maybe I did once, okay? Maybe I went and did shit because I wanted you to notice me, maybe I did things so you'd come take care of me because it was what reminded me that you cared when you're one second flirtatious and the next you're fucking across the room if I touch you, but Nick, I don't need you anymore. I don't need you to rescue me. I don't need you to care. I have myself, I have Greg Sanders and I've got a bottle of Jack, I've got a friend in there who makes me a mean drink and boys who fall all over me to tell me I'm beautiful," he spat the last word, as if it was the last thing he wanted those boys to say and Nick's heart nearly broke because this was a broken Greg with pain in his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. This was a Greg who thought he'd lost everything and was alone. He wondered briefly how you would tell someone that they had a friend and you'd always be there for them when your actions never really reflected what you said. He was at a loss. So he made a choice. He asked the un-askable question and brought it all to the surface. _

_"Why do you go to these places, Greg? Why the fuck do you spend your paycheck on alcohol and hook up with random men like that sleeze of a guy who wanted nothing more than a quick fuck? Greg you're -" Greg cut him off, voice harsh. _

_"Don't you fucking say I'm better than that. You don't know shit Nick. You want to know why I do it? Why I come here night after night and why I do take those guys home? Because I'm sick of being ignored. I'm sick of being ignored by my best friend who is figuring out this thing with Grissom, I'm sick of being ignored on the job because the older CSIs think I'm some kid playing and I'm sick of being ignored by you Nick. I'm sick of the mixed signals and the romantic motions that prove hallow and waiting around for you to decide whatever the fuck it is you're deciding. I'm SICK of it, Nick and I'm done with taking it. I was done about a week ago and so I started coming here, because these people find me attractive, these people don't ignore me, in fact, I'm hit on by more men in one night than have ever hit on me before when I'm here. So, Stokes, this is your get out of jail free card. I'm done, I don't need you anymore. Go find someone else to confuse, I'm finding a cab," and with a quick wrench of his arm the thinner man pulled away and stalked off, true to his word and slipped into the back of a yellow car and left Nick standing in front of a seedy club off the strip looking for the world like a man who'd lost everything. _

- - - -

He really should just call Greg and let him know. Tell him something, He hadn't meant to lead him on, and he did care for him. He was scared. Didn't Greg see that? He was terrified of what might happen if he opened himself to someone again. He was scared of being hurt, and as his thoughts taunted him night after night, he had caused Greg to be hurt through his fear.

The Texan groaned and rolled back to face the wall, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, but mind unwilling to relent to sleep. He'd never seen Greg that angry. He'd always pictured the younger man as a giggly drunk, a friendly drunk and perhaps he was, he was certainly being friendly with the little shit that Nick had pulled off him. That opened a whole new can of worms, because Nick really couldn't explain why he'd done that, he'd just been called because a mutual friend had seen Greg drink far too much and then go cruising, not in any state of mind to make smart choices, much less healthy ones. He'd been there in a matter of minutes and, had it been anyone else, he would have said he was jealous, but it was Greg and he wasn't sure of anything around that boy.

He gave up on sleep, once he was in this state there was nothing that could lull him back into a state of relaxation. He'd tried. As this was his third night of restless tossing , he'd tried most everything; reading until noon, pacing, staring at this damned white wall, masturbating - which had gone well until he realized the face that he saw was Greg's and the hands he was imagining trembled slightly as Greg's did, when he was nervous.

He rolled again, to his back and stared towards the white-washed ceiling, trying to bore holes in the plaster and wood with his eyes alone. It wasn't working. What on earth did he want to do? He couldn't leave Greg to wash his life away in a bottle, or leave him to continue to fuck around the gay community in Vegas, because who knew what fate befell him there, but he wasn't sure if he could do anything for Greg. He wasn't even sure what Greg wanted. What Greg needed. He sighed, rolled to face the nightstand and his watch again, noticing that the clock announced it being a reasonable time for people to get up, and he acquiesced, feet fighting free of the red sheets and touching the hardwood floor that was somehow always cold, even in this land of perpetual heat.

He stood, rubbing sleep-clouded eyes with the back of a broad hand and moved into his living room, staring for a moment at the phone. What was he doing? What was he thinking? Because now, after hours of restless tossing his mind was suddenly blank and he couldn't think of any reason any of this made sense.

A hand reached out, seemingly of its own accord, and maybe his brain was thinking - it had just decided to stop consulting him - because he quickly dialed the memorized number, gripping the handle of the phone with tight hands as it began to ring.

It rang.

It rang again.

He was about to hang up out of sheer nerve on the third ring when a masculine voice answered with a gruff hello. It wasn't Greg. He swallowed, oh this was a bad idea. A very bad idea. But his brain acted again without his consent and he heard himself speaking.

"I'm looking for Greg Sanders"

"Oh, yeah, just a sec." he sighed, he'd hoped maybe he'd gotten a wrong number, he thought he would have preferred that. The voice sounded on the other end of the phone, as if someone had put their hand over the receiver (why didn't people realize that really didn't do anything, Nick wondered absently), and Nick caught the words he spoke, 'Some guy on the phone for you, babe,'. The older man couldn't help it, he bristled in not-jealousy and tapped a foot impatiently, wanting to get his Greg on the phone. He heard the shift of the headset and then that silky voice poured into his ear.

"Hello?"

"Hi…um…Hi," He stuttered, suddenly at a loss for the reason he was calling.

"Nick?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's me…I uh…I didn't mean to wake you," he tried and thought he heard Greg snort on the other end of the line.

"Nick, what do you want?" He asked, plainly frustrated again. Nick paused, gulped slightly, and jumped in.

"Another chance to be whatever you need,"

- - -

A/N - First Nick/Greg Fic, so be kind and review? CSI and its characters are property of CBS and Jerry Bruckheimer Productions. Thanks to my wonderful beta Westbrook.


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